Into the Deep Wood

Val walked outside and around the side of the hut. The old woman had told the truth; behind the building was a modest vegetable garden. It was overflowing with food, every vine holding the largest tomatoes and cucumbers. There was a bush with pods of peas and bundles of leaves that led her to believe there were beets and radishes, too. She plucked an especially red tomato and put it in her pocket in case she got hungry later.

Making her way down the hill for the second time now, she surveyed the clearing and the lands she got to walk to in the evening. Glancing back, just beyond the cottage and the vegetable garden, trees were taller and thicker than the ones they had walked through before. It seemed as if they walled off the glade, entirely hiding it from the outside world, their roots tied into the steep rising ground and stones above.

Ahead, there was plenty to explore. She did not dare enter the woods for fear of being unable to find her way back. But she walked the paths encircling and weaving through the mire. The sound of frogs among the reeds and cattails was soothing. The paths were clearly marked with short wooden posts, ropes tied between them from one to the other. They were well taken care of, almost as if swept. She’d stopped to watch the small fish pluck bugs off the murky water's surface.

Val returned well before dark. The old woman was not in the hut, but on the stove sat a cauldron of stew - the smell so inviting, so familiar, that it almost brought tears to Val’s eyes. It smelled like the stew her grandmother made on cold winter days. They’d get beets, carrots, and potatoes out of the cellar, chop up some mutton, and throw it all in a pot of chicken stock. As a kid, Val would take freshly baked bread and use slices of it as a boat for the stew - until she was so full that her little belly protruded out of her shirt and could not eat another bite.

She waited for the old woman to return, but she was so hungry that after an hour or so, she took the liberty of pouring herself a bowl. She ate maybe four spoonfuls when the old woman appeared as if out of thin air. Her mouth was parted in that toothless smile.

“Eat, Little One, don’t stop.”

Val felt guilt - she did not even wait for her host after the old woman likely spent most of the day making this meal. She set the spoon down, ready to apologize - but the woman spoke before she could.

“Tomorrow - sweep the hut and scrub the floors, sweep the walk up to the house. Water the garden, bring a water basin up - my old back cannot bear the weight.” She listed off. Val felt relief that chores were being asked of her. She fully intended to help, and the clear direction made her feel less like a beggar.

As the evening drew to a close, Val washed the dishes from dinner and thought about what she would do next. She could not stay there forever. She did not even wish to stay long.

The old woman’s hospitality was generous and freely given - but Val knew that this was temporary, and her stomach twisted when she thought of the wood spirits possibly followed her here as they did to the village. She could not repay the old woman by cursing her or possibly getting her killed. She looked to where she was fussing with the dried herbs, the dishes stacked inside a shabby cabinet.

The little hunched figure moved fast between the lines where the plants hung. She checked some and plucked others off. Some, she produced out of her ratty clothes and hung up anew. Some she stripped of petals and threw the stems into the stove, still glowing from before. When satisfied with her weeds and flowers, she arranged them all on a scarf on the ground. There she sat, tying them together in a seemingly disordered fashion with a waxy cord.

When she was done, she shoved the bundles in Val’s hands; the girl was surprised, nearly dropping some.

“Take this outside. There are hooks on each of the eaves. There is one above the door. Hang them there, do not miss one.”

Val had done as she was told, finding every rusty nail bent into a hook sticking out of the eaves on the roof. They were spaced evenly, going all the way around the home. When she’d done the full round and returned to the front door, she saw that instead of a nail - above the door was tied a cross of bones - the topmost point standing further from the wall than others. She’d reached and hung the bundle of dried herbs on it.

That night, she slept disturbed, the dreams of chase and dead livestock unrelenting. She woke up in the middle of the night, not wanting to go back to sleep. The old woman was not in the hut.

Curious, for lack of windows, she’d gone to the door. One hand on the pull, one bracing against the wood to open it with the least noise, it creaked open.

The hill and clearing were drenched in moonlight, every detail all the way to the tree line clear as day. To the right, in the middle of the dirt circle, a large pyre burnt, swallowing up what looked to be a tall wooden post with something built on top. There was movement around it, but it was far enough away that Val could not tell who - or what - it was.

For a moment, she felt she should back up into the house and slam the door shut. But these could not be wood spirits; they were too close to the flames. She thought that maybe they were villagers, ones that came from a nearby settlement and knew the old woman. Did the old woman mean to hide her here from them?

Conflicted, she stood with her eyes fixated on the fire, trying to distinguish one shape from another. But the light and shadows danced upon figures also caught in movement. Curiosity or some sense of safety in knowledge pushed her to walk forward. She did not take the path down the hill, instead sticking to the right - going down among the boulders and brush concealed by the wild growth. She did her best not to make noise or disturb the grasses. Some of them sliced at her arms, unprotected by the nightshirt. A thorn had stuck to her bare foot, and she had to clench her jaw in pain but did not make a sound.

It was ahead just now. She barely made out what was on top of the burning pole - an effigy made out of branches and straw, but she could not tell what it was as it had been mostly burnt. The flames had eaten through.

Around it danced short, skinny, misshapen silhouettes. She still could not quite tell what they were.

Val crouched and moved closer until the fire's light revealed its companions.

It was the old woman.

They were all the old woman.

Naked, hair wild and flowing in all directions, each of the many figures was a copy of itself. All hunchbacked and wrinkly, with skinny arms and legs, they danced - too limber for their age. Without rhythm or meaning they spun and threw their arms up and collapsed on their knees and jumped up to spin again.

Val stared in horror. Where she went seeking understanding only birthed more questions. This was witchcraft, a ritual. And she had to leave.

Hurried but careful, she traced her steps back. Once far enough away to be out of hearing range, she ran to the trail up the hill. She ran much faster without the rocks and brush - never stopping once.

She stumbled inside and slammed the door behind her, grabbing a rag and wiping off her feet of dirt and dust. She shoved the rag under the cot. The bottom of her dress was dirty, too, but she hoped to hide it under the blankets. She would leave in the morning. Whatever it took, she would leave in the morning. Even if she had to steal and lie.

She pretended to be asleep when she heard the door creak and shuffling footsteps make their way into the room. They paused by her cot, but only briefly before moving to the other side.

“Sneaky girl, sleepy girl.”

Val realized she had dozed off in the morning hours. The old woman was standing over her now.

“Girl was to be sleeping but in the dark, she’s sneaking.” The old woman was not mad. Her face showed no emotion, her voice was level with the same hint of crazed as she had whenever she spoke.

“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” Val did not know how to address it; she did not know what the right thing to say was. What would save her at this moment? “I did not see anything.”

The old woman laughed, all five yellowed remaining teeth showing at once.

“Little One saw, Little One ran. But it matters not. Today, you’ll fetch the water, sweep the hut, clean the stove, and take down the herbs. And Little One will not run, or she will see what happens.”

Her ambiguous words left Val feeling more than uneasy. These words were not spoken like a threat. She did not reply; she just got up and dressed, doing as she was told. After she’d done the given chores, she was given more. It was not until the day ended and they both sat down to a supper that Val had cooked, that she had a chance to ask questions.

In that moment she felt brave, or moreso, desperate.

“Grandmother, are you a witch?”

The wrinkly face rose from the bowl. The slits under the draped skin where Val assumed her eyes had been were facing her now.

“Witch! I’m no witch, girl.” she put both her hands palms down on the table, “A witch, presumptuous and arrogant it is to imagine that they could touch the Nothing as if a bundle of blood and bones could pierce the planes. As if their sows could see what only blind eyes do. A witch.”

Val sat silent. She did not understand what the old woman was saying. She did not think she felt like understanding anymore.

“One question, one rise of the sun, one set.” The old woman stood and left her bowl at the table, hobbling toward the cot where she lay down.

Val sat silently, staring at the food, her appetite gone. The will to ask, argue, or plead dissolved in the suspended contents of the soup. She cleaned the table and set it for the next day quietly, careful not to disturb the now-sleeping Hag.